


Salvation

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fingering, Humiliation, Identity Porn, Kink Meme, M/M, Madeleine Era, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Javert wishes to be punished for the crime of mistaking Monsieur Madeleine for Jean Valjean, he expects to be dismissed. Not to be bend over Madeleine’s desk to rememember how it was to be punished in Toulon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=1358369#t2303265) kink meme prompt

There are two kinds of people in the world: Those who are criminals - and those who are not. Monsieur Madeleine, Javert knows, belongs to the second category. But what about himself?  
  
Madeleine’s eyes are on him. He knows. He can feel the gaze, even though he does not dare to look up. “I insist,” he says for what must be the tenth time in about as many minutes. “I disgraced your honour as well as mine.”  
  
“You made a mistake, Javert, nothing more.”  
  
Oh, how he wishes for something as simple as a mistake. “No,” he says gravely. “To confuse a criminal for another or forget the face of a nobleman, that is a mistake. But to confuse a man like you with a convict, this is … ” Treachery. Treason. A shame that will haunt him forever. “… unforgivable.”  
  
“Please, you are exaggerating.”  
  
“I cannot call myself a man of the law when I …” He trails off and gives a sigh, swallows audibly. Why won’t Madeleine understand? The are good men in the world, and there are evil men. It is that simple. And what Javert has done - to denounce your superior, to make false accusations - makes him a not very good man. “I see no possible way to be redeemed.”  
  
“I disagree,” the mayor says, fingertips taptap _tapping_ against the surface of his desk. He seems lost in thoughts, though, his gaze clouded. But only for a moment, for as long as Javert needs to draw in a breath to tell him that yes, _of course_ Madeleine believes in a way to solve this problem, because Monsieur Madeleine believes _all_ problems can be solved. Sadly, this isn’t as easy as giving away a handful of coins to every beggar on the street, this is a crime, this is treason. The man snaps out of his thoughts and regards Javert with an odd, inexplicable look. “Do you really wish me to chastise you accordingly?”  
  
He nods curtly. This is only fair. Measures need to be taken. Involuntarily, he straightens his back, ready to give up sword and honor.  
  
“Nothing as drastic as you propose, though.” Madeleine ponders again and the tapping of his fingers stops. “I have learned that you’ve been a prison guard.”  
  
“Yes, Monsieur le Maire.”  
  
“Then tell me, Javert. How did you punish your convicts?” When he tries to speak up, Madeleine only smiles. “Maybe together we may find a fitting punishment for your imagined crime.”  
  
Hesitation. “I think this is nothing your imagination should be soiled with.” Madeleine chuckles. It’s only half the truth, and they both know it, or at least Javert suspects him to know, to have heard of Toulon and prisons like it. He has his hat in his hands and fidgets a little while trying to gather all of his courage to embarrass himself in front of maybe the only man he openly admires.  
  
Finally, he does confess, does talk about the harsh words and harsher beatings, the sound of the lash on naked skin, the cries of pain and sadness and fear, talks about forced isolation and all-consuming darkness - only to leave out one certain infamous way of humiliating the prisoners.  
  
After he is finished, he folds his hands behind his back and looks at the mayor, only to furrow his brows in confusion when he sees a small smile tugging at the man’s lips. “Is something the matter, sir?”  
  
“You are being dishonest with me, Javert.”  
  
“I’d never lie to you!” he exlaims more forcefully than intended and only relaxes when Madeleine holds up a hand and slowly shakes his head, only calms a little when Madeleine tells him he _knows_ , knows Javert wouldn’t lie, though he doesn’t know _why_ every fiber in Javert’s being would scream in horror at the thought of lying, of twisting and breaking a truth that protects him from the depths of himself, from some part of his existence he wishes to snuff out like a smoked cigar. “I would never think of being dishonest with you, Monsieur le Maire.”  
  
Some more reassuring words and calming gestures. Then: “But you are keeping information from me, Inspector.”  
  
“How … ” How do you know?  
  
“Your eyes cannot hide a truth.” Javert fidgets again, tries to apologize. Madeleine, however, simply smiles his infuriating smile that confuses Javert’s thoughts; this smile that wants to tell him that everything is good, is all right, that Javert has done nothing wrong, which is in itself the biggest lie of all. “Tell me. I promise not to think less of you.”  
  
 _I promise you will change your mind._  
  
The images of those days return to his mind as vivid as whenever he lies awake at night, whenever his body betrays him even though he does his best to bury these shameful memories and urges. It’s no use. It never is.  
  
Valjean is on his knees, the shackles around his wrists clinking audibly. His eyes are ablaze with fire, his teeth bared, and he is snarling like the beast he is and always will be. A truncheon connects with his face, swaying his head to the side. He spits blood, grits his teeth, struggles as rough hands tear at his clothing. The truncheon is back, joined by hands and fists, hitting his spine, his shoulder blades, and with a grunt of pain, he hunches over, only for the hands to return, to relieve him of his pants.  
  
Javert watches. He always does. His eyes never leave the scene, never leave Valjean’s face, his body, his trembling frame, and he always find himself shivering at the sight of calloused fingers entering him, of Valjean’s eyes growing dark with arousal, of his cheeks burning with shame. Javert never looks away, even as he barks instructions and threats and bellows things like _this is your fault for being disrespectful, and this will happen to each of you, so watch him and learn!_ … He watches Valjean come undone, hears him moan and gasp, sees his hips twitch and his cock leak - and when Valjean comes, is forced to come in front of his inmates - a laughing, cheering audience -, his own cock is always so painfully hard in his pants that he fears he might come as well, humiliate himself alongside Valjean (and isn’t this what he fears the most? To be like him?)  
  
Maybe it is only his imagination, maybe it’s a real memory, but in his mind, Valjean is looking up to him with a knowing smirk.  
  
A flush creeps onto his cheeks and he clears his throat. “There was … something else,” he admits - unnecessarily, because they already know this, but he feels the need to draw out the inevitable a few more moments. Madeleine nods and gestures for him to go on, so he does, has no other choice than to comply. He describes cruel hands - nails digging into skin - spreading the convict’s legs, reports the mélange between pain and pleasure, and the torturous knowledge that _everybody’s_ eyes were upon the scene, were watching. Even after he has stopped, he can still taste the words in his mouth, the taste of sin and damnation and _you liked it and now it is no longer your shameful little secret, now he knows, too, knows what lies underneath your skin, knows what Javert, calm and stoic and respectable Javert really is like_. His fingers dig into the fabric of his hat and he almost doesn’t dare to look the mayor in the eye.  
  
When he does, though, eventually, Madeleine’s face betrays no reaction. “So,” the man says, “you performed this … duty as well?”  
  
“No, sir. Never.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Ah, and isn’t this the real joke? “I was afraid.”  
  
“Of what?”  
  
“Of losing my salvation.”  
  
Madeleine sports a confused smile on his face. “To follow your orders is no act of sin, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”  
  
“To enjoy them is.”  
  
The silence between them is ot a comfortable one. Javert feels his hands sweat in his thick leather gloves, watches the mayor’s face, the expressions switching from confusion to understanding to - what Javert assumes - complete and utter disgust.  
  
“Am I to understand that you would have wished to-“  
  
“Yes,” he interrups. No need to let the man _say_ these words. It’s bad enough that he has to _think_ them. And it’s even worse that Javert has these urges. No need to further dwell on them.  
  
Madeleine leans back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. His eyes are unreadable. He is silent for what feels like an eternity. “I have decided on your punishment, then.”  
  
Javert blinks. “Have you?”  
  
Finally, Madeleine stands, walks around the desk, stops behind Javert, who does not dare to turn around. Madeleine’s breath is hot against his ear, lips almost touching skin. “One crime for another, one sin for absolution. To regain the right to wear your uniform, you will have to place yourself as low as your convicts.”  
  
He breathes in, breathes out, swallows audibly. “If this is the punishment you chose for me, I will gladly accept it.”  
  
“Of course you will.” Madeleine sighs darkly, then orders him to strip out of his jacket. Immediately, his hands rush to his buttons and he opens one after the other, all the while subdued to Madeleine’s intense gaze. “So eager to be punished?” the mayor asks and Javert feels his face flush.  
  
“Only eager to earn forgiveness, Monsieur le Maire.” It’s not a lie, of course not, but it seems Javert is getting accustomed to leaving out the whole truth by now. He is also eager to leave the memory of Jean Valjean behind, of his eyes and face, of muscles tensing underneath his skin, of … of all these little details that have been haunting him for years. Maybe, he thinks, maybe the mayor will manage to tear the sins out of him.  
  
Seconds later, he shrugs out of his jacket, only to fold it neatly and place it on the desk in front of him. As his fingers brush over the buttons of his pants, Madeleine closes a large hand around his right wrist. “You can still say ‘no’, Javert. We do not have to do this.”  
  
Javert only shakes his head. “This is what I -” Need. Want. Beg you for. “- deserve.”  
  
The mayor lets go of him, and he finishes opening the buttons. His pants slide down his waist only to pool at his ankles, where they meet his boots. A sharp intake of breath escapes his lips as Madeleine orders him to lean over the desk, and he complies, leans forwad, his palms bracing against the wooden surface.  
  
He’s still wearing his gloves. He doesn’t even think of asking if he may remove them. He doesn’t think of anything anymore when, roughly, his underpants are yanked down and he is left there, standing half-naked in his superior’s office like a schoolboy, and the sweet taste of shame is in his mouth. He swallows, closes his eyes and gives himself over, gives himself up.  
  
“You said a beating came first?”  
  
Did he? Did he talk about the beatings? He can’t remember anymore, not with how his thoughts are reeling in his mind. He nods, anyway, and holds his breath, waits for the first blow to fall.  
  
Instead, Madeleine slips a hand under the hems of Javert’s undershirt, his fingers rubbing soothing circles over taut muscles. “Relax, Inspector. I do not wish to hurt you. I will refrain from using my walking stick on you, if you agree.”  
  
The thought of the mayor’s hands striking his bare flesh makes his breath hitch and his knees tremble. Suddenly, he is very glad to have a surface to lean onto. “Whatever you deem necessary, Monsieur le Maire,” he says when he really wants to say _please, yes, oh God, please._  
  
Even though he is expecting it, the first strike still catches him unguarded. He flinches away, or rather _tries to_ , because he finds Madeleine has a hand on his hips, an unyielding, bruising grip that makes Javert’s head spin and his heart beat faster.  
  
“Oh no, Javert. Don’t even try to get away from me.”  
  
It’s a growl, low and almost dangerous, and Javert feels dizzy, for this is how he always imagined Valjean to sound, Valjean with his haunted eyes and large hands and even larger cock, and he barely manages to bite his lower lip to muffle a whimper as Madeleine’s hand connects with his backside once more. He welcomes the stinging pain, as it reminds him of here and now instead of then and there. For a second, he wonders if he should ask to count the blows, but then he thinks that Madeleine would have told him if this was his wish.  
  
He still does count, though, inwardly. Ten slaps. Then fifteen. They come in an uneven rhythm, one he can’t prepare for, so every slap catches him by surprise again and again. His skin tingles where the mayor has left his mark. He is sure he won’t be able to sit down for quite a while. The thought is maddening. The first droplets of sweat trickle down his forehead, his neck and spine and whenever he closes his eyes, the image of Valjean comes to his mind unbidden. He feels his body react, his cock harden, and he hates himself for it, hates how much he needs and wants, and when Madeleine slips a finger between his cheeds to brush over his entrance, he groans a name he’d never uttered like this before, not even in his most sinful dreams.  
  
The mayor draws his hand back as if it were on fire. “What did you call me?”  
  
Panic rises in his chest, the feeling of a cold hand clasping around his heart. “Monsieur le Maire,” he begins and stops, because he has no idea what to say. _I can explain_ , maybe, but can he? Is there any excuse for this behaviour, these cravings? _I apologize_ , maybe. Yes, that would do. He _is_ sorry, after all, so very sorry.  
  
However, Madeleine doesn’t even give him the time to answer. “This name. I heard it before.” His voice grows cold, cruelly amused. “Ah, of course. It is _his_ name, right? The convict you mistook me for.” The grip on Javert’s waist tightens, which makes him gasp in pain and shame and arousal. “Be honest, Inspector. Is this what you wanted all along? An excuse to be humiliated and taken by someone who reminds you of this man?” A pause, then: “For Christ’s sake, don’t shake your head, man, you aren’t mute!”  
  
“Forgive me, Monsieur le Maire, I … this man, his image has been haunting me for years. And when I thought I saw him in you, I meant to relieve myself of him forever. I didn’t mean to … I didn’t want to … “  
  
A harsh slap onto his arse silences his pathetic stammer. It rips a yelp out of his throat; he quickly bites his lower lip again, harder this time, to refrain from embarrassing himself even more.  
  
“No excuses, Inspector,” Madeleine barks. “They will not help you escape your punishment.” He pauses anew, the silence between them as sharp as Javert’s own sword. “Be glad for my kindness. I will help you with getting rid your inner demons, of this man, for I will use you like I expect a con would. Without mercy.”  
  
“Monsieur le Maire -“  
  
“No, Javert,” the man says, softly. “Not right now. I believe he would not want you to call him ‘maire’, would he?” A chuckle. “I suggest you call him - me - maître for now.”  
  
“Maître … ” The word tastes rich on his tongue, full of implications and epectations, full of hatred and shame. Yes, he thinks, Valjean would like this, would use this word, would want to pass as a man among the beasts he belongs to, would want to degrade Javert, treat him like a dog, a spoiled pup. It’s a good word, he thinks as Madeleine shoves two fingers in his mouth and orders him to suck.  
  
He does, He sucks and licks and groans as the fingers crook and bend and thrust into his mouth like he imagines Valjean’s cock would. He almost chokes on them, draws in shaky breaths when his mouth is released.  
  
A slick finger slides between his cheeks and into him with ease. It’s hot inside him, thick. It does not hurt - to his own surprise -, does not burn as he imagined it would. Instead, it is filling him out, tearing him apart not with pain, but with pleasure, a sick and twisted kind of ecstasy that makes him groan and rock his hips back against the iron grip. Madeleine chuckles in his ear and says something he can’t exactly comprehend, because that is when the second finger pushes into him, and his knees give out under his weight. He is so very grateful for the hand on his waist that supports him, and then the mayor is there, pressed flush against him, saying ‘Keep still’ and ‘I won’t take you on the floor like some kind of animal’ and it is too much and not enough at the same time, and Javert starts to beg for some kind of mercy he neither deserves nor believes in.  
  
Madeleine only laughs and spreads his fingers wide to tease his insides, crooks and curls them, and then they find the spot that makes Javert see stars in front of his eyes. His mind is spinning and reeling, and it’s hot, so hot, a heat building up in his chest and belly, and Madeleine just _does not stop_ , even though Javert fears he might black out at any second, and then Madeleine touches him _there_ again, and it’s too much. Javert is coming, screaming Valjean’s name and the name of the Lord, and when he remembers how to breathe again, the mayor is there, holding him, praising him for what a _good boy_ he is.  
  
He almost believes the praise to be worse than the shame. “Am I free to go?” he asks and flushes at how hoarse his voice sounds.  
  
But they are not done. Not yet. “If I were a lesser man,” the mayor whispers in his ear, his breath sending shivers through Javert’s body, “if I were your Jean Valjean, I’d force you to lick your seed off my desk now.” The thought makes Javert moan, a breathy sound, almost like a whimper. “As I’m not, though,” Madeleine says with a dark chuckle, “I will only _ask you nicely_.”  
  
Of course, ‘asking nicely’ is not done verbally. Madeleine brushes long fingers over the back of Javert’s neck and higher, tangles them in his hair, only to _pull_ and force his head back, and Javert moans at the delightful spark of pain that makes his skin tingle. His eyes settle on what little he can see of Madeleine’s face; the sight leaves him breathless: The mayor’s eyes have darkened, warm brown having turned almost black, not with desire, but with something else, something carnal. He shows a toothy grin, and when Javert looks deeper, there is a flicker of darkness crossing the man’s features that makes Javert think of the Abyss, dark and forceful and unyielding.  
  
“But you are,” he says, and Madeleine snaps out of whatever demon was possessing him, giving him a guarded look. And if the hold on his hair tightens considerably, then Javert is the last to complain. “You are,” he breathes out, “right now. Because … ” He closes his mouth, bites the inside of his cheek in an effort to swallow all the words that lie on the tip of his tongue. _Because this is my punishment. Because witnessing you steep so low is what humiliates me the most._  
  
A smile creeps on Madeleine’s lips, a shark-like baring of teeth that turns into the understanding and patient smile the mayor always holds for his lost sheep. “You are right, of course. I _am_ your Jean Valjean today, after all.” With this, Madeleine _pushes_ , never letting go of his hair, and Javert must bite back a sob of gratitude as he is forced onto his knees. Above him, the mayor growls one single syllable. “Lick.”  
  
The solid wood of the floor feels cold against his bared legs, contrasting the heat that is still burning inside his body and mind. It renders him helpless, immobile, and he is glad for Madeleine’s hand in his hair that guides him - none too gently - towards the fluid. Javert licks his lips in anticipation. He should be ashamed - he _is_ ashamed -, but he feels the mayor’s eyes on him as he faces his own sin so very clearly, so very literally. Madeleine doesn’t even need to push him forward these last few inches - Javert goes willingly.  
  
His eyes close on their own the very instant his tongue laps up the first droplets of his release, and he shivers, his fingers twitching as if they longed to close around his spent cock, bring it to hardness again and again for the mayor to punish his sinful body every time anew.  
  
With no little effort, he keeps still, except for his tongue and lips that clean every trace of himself off the mayor’s desk. The bitter taste lingers on his tongue and he is sure this is what forgiveness tastes like.  
  
“You are doing well,” Madeleine says above him, and it takes all of Javerts willpower not to lean closer to his hand like an obedient dog.  
  
It takes no longer than a minute or two, then Madeleine tugs at his hair with gentle fingers. “Well done,” he says, his hand slowly retreating. “All wrongs are corrected, Javert, all sins forgiven. I had expected nothing less from you.”  
  
Javert’s face flushes, and when the mayor permits him to stand, to get dressed again, he does so with shaking limbs. His breath finally grows steady, the tension returns to his body as he closes the last of his buttons.  
  
Madeleine - who was looked down to grant Javert the dignity of dressing unobserved - sits down behind his desk and folds his hands to rest his chin on them. “Before you go back to your duty, Inspector … “  
  
“Y-yes, Monsieur le Maire?” he asks, chastising himself inwardly for the quiver in his voice. He has his hat in his hands once more, fidgets with it before he can help himself.  
  
The look in Madeleine’s eyes is warm, almost friendly, and a smile plays on his lips. “As long as you are under my command, you need not worry about your salvation. I will take care of you.”  
  
Javert opens his mouth, only to close it again immediately, for words fail him. All he can manage is a nod.  
  
And if there are tears stinging in the corners of his eyes, they both pretend not to notice.


End file.
